The air was frigid, but the sun was shining. Trinket shielded her eyes against the bright rays as they reflected off the snow that was now trapped beneath an icy barrier. She made her way down the street and towards the city center, Booker's list tucked away in her pocket. She clutched it anxiously, apprehensive about setting out on her own. Paranoia convinced her that enemies awaited her at every turn. Even in broad daylight, she wasn't so sure her pursuers wouldn't try to abduct her.

"Running errands?"

She stopped short and gasped, but when she turned to find Gin standing beside her, she released a sigh of relief. The urchin's eyes crinkled as she grinned mischievously.

"Yes," Trinket replied. "Booker needs some gears from the Tinker,"

Gin proceeded to walk alongside her. "Ah, is he making some new doo-hickey?"

"In fact, he is."

"What is it? Or is it a secret?"

Trinket hesitated for a moment. "I'm not entirely sure. Everything he does feels secretive, and yet so many people seem to know what he's up to."

"That's how he likes to do things. But he knows what to keep quiet. The important things."

Trinket nodded slowly. Was her condition one of those important things? She certainly hoped so.

"It has to do with the Wolf, doesn't it?" Gin asked.

Raising her eyebrows, Trinket gave a covert smile.

Gin grinned. "When he sets his sights on something, he won't stop till he gets it. I'm sure he's got all kinds of devices planned to help him catch that thing."

"He is very inventive."

"He's more than just inventive. Take a look at this."

Gin retrieved something from her pocket and handed it to Trinket. It was a crow made up of metal and gears, small enough to fit neatly in her palm. Despite it being the color of brass, Trinket could tell it was a crow by the meticulous detail in its shape, metal feathers, and long beak. It was delightfully charming. Someone had obviously put great care into making it.

"Watch," Gin said as she twisted a tiny winder under the bird's tail.

A whirring sound came from within the crow, and its mechanical wings began to flap slowly. A brass propeller extended from out of the bird's back, and as it started to spin, the crow rose out of Trinket's hand and zoomed about in a frenzied flight.

Trinket watched in awe while Gin laughed at the passersby ducking to keep from being struck in the head by the maniacal bird. After a few moments, the buzzing from the propeller sputtered, and the toy's height began to decrease. Gin ran after it and caught it before it hit the ground. Trotting back to Trinket, she showed her the now motionless bird, its propeller returned to its place inside the crow's body.

"Booker made this?" Trinket asked, gently touching the bird's beak.

"Sure did," Gin said. "Not too long after I met him. I've kept it in pretty good shape if I do say so myself."

Why would a brilliant scientist spend time making trinkets and toys? It didn't seem in character for the calculating doctor who worked wonders down in that laboratory. But perhaps he had another side to him, a softer one he was determined to hide behind amputations and grease.

Gin returned the bird to her pocket. "Has he made you anything yet?"

Trinket shook her head as they continued down the street. "No, he hasn't."

"Yeah, I figured. I'm pretty important, after all." Gin eyed Trinket's attire. "Though he's never bought me fancy dresses."

"I'm certain he would if you asked."

The urchin scoffed. "I'd never ask him for anything I didn't really need."

Trinket considered the frigid temperature and Gin's inadequate and ill-fitting clothes. "You don't need warm clothing for the winter?"

"I get by just fine, thank you very much." The girl raised her eyebrows and smiled bitterly "He must think you'll last, though."

"What do you mean?"

"As his assistant. And housemaid, I guess. But I reckon he's more keen on the assistant part. He's been working on his own since he moved to Tinkerfall."

"How long has he lived here?"

"Long enough. No one knew much about him when he first came. Still don't, even if they think they do. That's a talent of his, telling you so much that you think he's told you everything when really he hasn't told you anything."

Trinket grinned. "Sort of like what you're doing right now?"

"Eh?"

"You're telling me all sorts of vague things about Booker but nothing of substance. Seems you've learned that trick from him."

Gin shrugged. "If I had much to tell, I wouldn't give it up so easily. I'm a loyal conspirator."

Chuckling softly, Trinket smothered a smile. "You are indeed. I certainly wouldn't want you up against me."

"So long as you're on Booker's side, you'll never have me as an enemy. Even if he does end up liking you more."

Trinket raised an eyebrow at the urchin. "Why would he like me more than you? Look at the skills you have: thieving, gambling, ferreting out important information. And what can I do? Burn crumpets and make a passable cup of tea. You're far more valuable than I could ever be."

"There must be something special about you for him to make you his assistant. I've seen plenty of maids come and go, and he never made any of them his assistant."

"Maybe he didn't need an assistant back then."

"Booker doesn't need anyone till he realizes he does."

Trinket furrowed her brow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you must've impressed him with something he saw as valuable. Something he wanted. Something he needed."

"Oh, yes. I have no interest in the ordinary. And you, my dear Trinket, are anything but ordinary."

Trinket took a sharp breath as Booker's words echoed in her head. Could it be she was valuable? To him? Was it even possible for someone as broken as herself to be useful?

No, it isn't.

You're worthless.

Swallowing hard, she pulled out Booker's list and turned to Gin. "Well, I'm obviously not all that special. Booker gave me this list of supplies he needs, and I don't understand what any of it means. The Tinker is going to think me a fool."

Gin flashed a victorious grin. "Read it to me. I'll explain it to you."

By the time they reached the Tinker's shop, Trinket was no closer to understanding Booker's technical jargon than before, but she was sincerely impressed by Gin's knowledge. Her ability to retain information without even being able to read was certainly something to marvel at.

A bell rang as they entered the shop. It smelled strongly of grease and metal inside. A thick film had developed over the windows, causing the light that filtered in to have a somewhat smokey effect as it reflected off of the hundreds of gears hanging from long nails in the walls. Were the gears for aesthetic purposes or simply the Tinker's method of displaying his goods?

As they shuffled further inside the small shop, Trinket's boots clicked against the brass tiled floor. That seemed a strange choice of flooring. But then the Tinker—a sallow, pudgy man—dropped a tiny rivet where he was working at the counter. It fell to the floor with a loud clang that echoed through the room and alerted the Tinker to its misplacement. He heaved a heavy sigh before lowering his goggles over his eyes. Crouching down, he scanned the floor and gently picked the lost piece up with a pair of tweezers. He returned the rivet to his pile of parts and then slid the goggles back onto his head before turning to her and Gin.

"How can I help you?" he asked, sounding annoyed at the prospect of customers.

"Mr. Larkin is in need of gears," Trinket said, passing Booker's list to the man.

His eyes flickered to the paper and then to her. They traveled up and down her body, and she instinctively shrank away from the uncomfortable attention.

"You work for Larkin?" the man asked.

"Yes?"

The Tinker's thick eyebrows lifted in surprise as he glanced back at the list. He grunted and walked around the counter to retrieve the requested gears from the walls. "All these years and he's never sent any of his help here to do his errands. I was wondering whether he even had a servant."

"Booker likes to do his own legwork," Gin said. "But he lets people help when he needs to. Trinket here has been working for him for about five years now."

Trinket started and cast Gin a confused frown. The girl widened her fierce amber eyes, and Trinket immediately swallowed down any questions she may have had.

"Five years?" the Tinker repeated. "He hasn't even lived here five years."

"He brought her with him when he moved."

The Tinker turned to look Trinket over once more. She crossed her arms self-consciously over her chest. "I've never seen her about Tinkerfall before."

"She wasn't always blonde," Gin said, leaning against the counter. "She used to dye her hair black for some strange reason. Looked ridiculous."

Opening her mouth to object, Trinket quickly closed it after a sharp look from the urchin.

"Used to walk all hunched over, too," Gin went on. "Like this."

She bent her back to an absurd degree in demonstration.

The Tinker watched her with more than a little suspicion in his expression. "That so?" he said, stealing a glance at Trinket.

Gin ceased her rather insulting pantomime. "Yep. Pretty sad state, really."

The Tinker looked Trinket up and down for the third time. Was this some sort of unnerving tic of his? "You cleaned up well," he said with a grunt. "And straightened out."

"That would be Booker's doing," Gin said. "She finally gave in and let him work on her bad back. And like everyone knows, Booker is a genius who can do just about anything. As you can see."

Returning to the counter, the Tinker twisted his curled mustache and nodded slowly. "Yes, I do see. Though I don't know about Larkin being a genius. He's not the only one who can build things. I'm rather talented at my craft, too."

He waved at the assortment of gadgets on the counter. While interesting and impressive, none of them matched the wonders that were Booker's prosthetics or even the mechanical crow.

Trinket forced a polite smile.

Clearly disappointed by her response, the Tinker sighed and rang up the gears. "I'm guessing Larkin is busy looking for that wolf?" he said as he handed her the bag of parts and took the coins she offered.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, unsure of how much Booker wanted his neighbors to know about his endeavours.

"It's all anyone can talk about lately, and if I know Larkin, he won't be able to keep his nose out of it. Busybody is going to get himself killed with all his meddling."

Busybody? She nearly snorted. Booker, though curious and reckless, was certainly not a busybody.

"I hear that the government is what set this thing loose," the Tinker went on, his massive eyebrows rising higher.

"The government?" Gin echoed, sounding skeptical.

"Yep. Heard tell they created that monster to help rid the streets of all the riff-raff around here."

"Wouldn't that be most of the city?"

"Nah, just the useless folks. You know, the beggars and strays."

Gin bristled. "You mean strays like me?"

The Tinker shrugged. "So I hear."

Slamming her hands on the counter, the urchin impressively managed to stare the man down while actually staring up. "You know what I think, you spineless, potbellied—"

Trinket grabbed hold of Gin's arm and tugged her away, cutting her off mid-insult. "Have a nice day," she said to the Tinker as she dragged Gin out the door.

The girl was still muttering scathing remarks as Trinket pulled her further from the shop.

"Gin, calm down," Trinket whispered.

"Get offa me," Gin snapped, snatching her arm out of her grip. "I'm not a child, I don't need you coddling me."

Letting out a long sigh, Trinket tucked the bag of gears into her coat pocket. "I'm sorry, but I was afraid you were going to attack him."

Gin scoffed. "He would've deserved it, yammering on like that. He just likes to sound big and important, like he actually knows anything."

"I doubt what he said was true anyhow."

"Doesn't matter. He's right. The government doesn't like us dirtying up the streets. If they could make a wolf to eat us all, they would."

It was surprising to hear a touch of sadness in the plucky urchin's tone. "Well, Booker wouldn't allow it," Trinket said. "And neither would I."

Gin glanced up at her with a lopsided smile. "Awful nice of you, but I don't think there's much even Booker could do."

Before Trinket could argue, a small boy, perhaps a year or two younger than Gin, came running towards them. "Miss Trinket, Mr. Larkin has an extra errand for you," he said in between breaths.

He handed her a torn scrap of paper. She took it and found written in big, hurried letters and underlined thrice: MEAT. She raised an eyebrow. Meat? Why would he need meat?

Nevertheless, she slipped the paper into her pocket. "Thank you," she said to the boy. "I'll go off and get it now."

"He also wonders if you've gotten the gears yet," the boy added.

"I have."

"He asked me to bring them home."

Trinket glanced at Gin who waved an annoyed hand at the boy. "Go ahead, he's fine," she said.

With Gin's permission, she handed him the bag. Nodding politely at them both, the boy gripped the parcel tightly and ran back towards the slums.

"So where are we headed next?" Gin asked.

"Apparently the butcher," Trinket said, pulling out the scrap of paper and glancing at it again.

Gin scrunched up her face. "Ugh, I hate the butcher. Smells like death."

"Well, you needn't come. I'm sure you have your own errands to be running. Games to be rigging. Pockets to be picking."

Ignoring her teasing, Gin turned in the direction of the butcher. "No, our walk's been fun. Might as well keep going," she said.

Trinket shrugged and followed after her. They continued in comfortable silence for a spell, and Trinket's thoughts returned to the lies Gin had told the Tinker. Why had she said all that? And how had she come up with such a ridiculous story?

"Gin, about what you said back at the shop—"

"What part? I said a lot of things."

"The things you said about me."

The girl's step faltered for a moment, but she quickly regained her footing. "What about it?"

"Why did you lie?"

She shrugged. "I lie a lot."

"You seemed on a mission."

"Maybe I was. Maybe I want people to think you're ugly and weird."

"Gin."

The urchin spun around to face her and raised herself up on her toes in an effort to match her height. It didn't do much, but her gaze was intimidating all the same. "Listen, just let it be," she whispered. Her eyes darted about frantically before returning to her. "Sometimes it's better not to know a lot. Just go along with it. It'll keep you safe, trust me."

Keep her safe? What was that supposed to mean?

But rather than push the subject, Trinket simply nodded, and they resumed their promenade to the butcher. After a moment or two, though, she cleared her throat. "Do I look old enough to have worked for Booker for five years?"

Gin gave a snort of a laugh. "I don't know. Older people all look the same to me. But I guess if I really think about it, you look pretty young. I think the Tinker thought so, too."

Trinket grimaced at the memory of the man's lingering gaze.

"Why? How old are you?" Gin asked.

"Oh, now, sometimes it's better not to know a lot," Trinket said, outpacing her as they arrived at the butcher shop.

Since Booker hadn't specified what kind of meat to get, she chose at random and purchased a leg of lamb. The juices from the meat seeped through the newspaper the butcher had wrapped it in, and Gin offered to carry it as they made their way back home.

"It'll ruin your fancy clothes," she said.

"I'll just wash them," Trinket said, although she held the package a safe distance from her coat. "Besides, you seemed rather repulsed by it as he threw it on the counter."

Gin wrinkled her nose. "I'm all for meat when it's been cooked, but it's gross straight off the animal."

Trinket glanced down at the leaking parcel and grimaced. "Yes, it is."

"And it makes me think about death."

Turning to the girl, Trinket furrowed her brow. "That's a rather dark subject for lamb to inspire."

"It just makes me think that underneath our clothes and skin and hair, we all look like that. And that makes me think about how the animal was killed and cut into pieces and hung on hooks. And then that makes me wonder if that's how I'll go."

Trinket blanched. "You think someone's going to cut you up and hang you on a hook?"

"Or shoot me or slice my throat or torture me. There's all sorts of ways it could happen."

Eyes wide, Trinket stopped and stared down at the urchin. "You really imagine such things?"

Gin shrugged again. "Living on the streets gives you plenty of time to wonder about how you'll die. And with the trouble I get into, it probably won't be by starving or freezing or growing old. Something tells me I'm going to boil the wrong person's blood, and then—"

Drawing a finger across her throat, she made a guttural choking sound and stuck her tongue out before closing her eyes and dropping her head onto her shoulder.

Trinket's mouth fell open in horror. "What a morbid thing to contemplate."

Really, though, she had no freedom of speech on the matter considering her own tendencies towards suicide.

Gin opened her eyes and grinned. "Not your typical street urchin, am I?"

Trinket smiled as they continued on their way. "I never thought you were."

When they reached Booker's house, Gin bid Trinket farewell and disappeared into an alley across the street. Trinket played over the urchin's ominous words from earlier as she watched her go and took a trembling breath. Surely the girl's fate wouldn't be as gruesome as she supposed, especially not with Booker watching after her. No, if he went to the trouble of making her whimsical toys, he most certainly wouldn't let her die at such a young age.

As Trinket stepped into the foyer, she could hear Booker speaking to someone in the parlour. Hanging up her coat, she noticed a lady's coat set on one of the rungs beside Booker's. She quietly made her way to the parlour and peeked inside to find a beautiful lady sitting by Booker on the settee. The woman's back was to the doorway as Booker gently held her hand close to his face.

Her mechanical hand.

Trinket stumbled over her feet, and Booker glanced up from his work. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the package in her arms. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he managed to repress a smile.

"Miss Trinket, you've returned," he said.

The lady turned to her with a sharp intake of breath. Her cheeks reddened, and she ducked her head as if to hide.

Trinket hesitantly took a step into the parlour. "I got what you requested, sir, though you weren't very specific."

"Meet Madame Spenlow," Booker said, ignoring the meat she held out to him.

Trinket offered a short curtsey. "Madame."

Madame Spenlow nodded in acknowledgement, keeping her head down and her face out of sight.

With one final twist of his tool, Booker smiled up at her. "Finished."

The woman didn't even inspect his work. She pulled her glove over the mechanical prosthetic and fished a purse out of her sash. Placing it on the table, she murmured her thanks and brushed past Trinket as she hurried into the hallway. She quickly donned her coat and slipped out the front door, slamming it closed in her rush.

Trinket brought her attention back to Booker. "A client of yours?" she asked as she entered the parlour.

"Yes," Booker said, stretching his arms across the top of the settee and crossing one leg over the other. "I replaced her hand a while ago after it was broken beyond repair."

"Broken? How did a lady of wealth break her hand?"

"She wouldn't tell me. However, through my sources, I discovered that her husband enjoys roughing her up in bed. Apparently gets his thrills out of it. Went a bit too far and—"

He made a snapping motion with his hands, and she flushed. "What does he make of her mechanical hand?" she asked.

Booker shrugged. "If he knows about it, he likely insists she keep it covered at all times."

She sat beside him, clutching the package of meat to her chest. "I suppose he doesn't feel ashamed of the damage he's done?"

"I wouldn't think so."

She knitted her brows together. "The poor woman."

"Well, that's what you get for marrying for money." Booker picked up the purse Madame Spenlow had left. "Not that I object to the money."

She narrowed her eyes at him but refrained from responding.

"So, you got the meat," he said.

"Yes. Like I said, you weren't very specific, so I just bought a leg of lamb."

"That will do perfectly."

He took the package from her and rose to his feet, excitement practically radiating from his person.

"Did you want me to cook it?" she asked uncertainly, not wanting to be so forward as to ask what he intended to use it for.

Booker glanced back at her, his smile wide and his eyes wild. "No, my dear. This isn't for dining. It's for hunting."

"Hunting?"

"Indeed. Tonight, in fact."

"Let me guess. We're hunting for wolves?"

"No, only one." He held the package of meat away from himself, as if proudly admiring his newborn child. "One is all I need."